


Dear Damn Diary

by starrfaux



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: AU, Gay Stuff, Journaling, Larry is a dumbass city-slicker, M/M, being outside a lot, don't judge too harshly because I already am, i honestly don't know what i'm doing, if I can stay motivated long enough to write the whole thing it's gonna be a slow burn, maybe explicit things eventually, nature stuff, no plan, this is kinda free-form so I'm just writing it as i go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:01:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22623724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrfaux/pseuds/starrfaux
Summary: Larry decides to spend his summer in a small town, far from the city, in hopes of finding something that will make him a better artist. This is a notebook he's keeping of his time in the countryside.
Relationships: Sal Fisher & Larry Johnson - Relationship, Sal Fisher/Larry Johnson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

Dear Damn Diary… Or Journal. Whatever the fuck this is.  
  
It’s April 29th. Classes are out for the summer. It’s hot as balls.

This is weird. I’m not used to keeping something like this. Not sure what benefits writing my thoughts is supposed to have, but Ash says it’s good practice when you’re feeling blocked. By getting your creativity out in other ways.  
  
Does she expect me to write poetry or something? Pretty sure that’s not my thing.  
  
But since I don’t know what else to write about, I figured I could use this as something to document this trip.  
  
Like I said before, I’ve been feeling… blocked? Or uninspired? My art professor said I’m only good at capturing what’s _seen_. That art is all about the _unseen_. Whatever that means. And suggested that I do some “self-exploration” over the break. When I talked to the others about this, Ash suggested that I spend time in nature. I’m sure I didn’t look too thrilled, so Todd suggested that I stay with his parents. Which also didn’t sound great, but apparently they’re pretty deep in nature and have a pot farm.  
  
So, basically, I signed up for an all-summer countryside getaway, where I’ll spend the entire three months stoned and making art. Hell yeah.  
  
‘Though, Todd did mention that his folks are pretty… low-tech. The whole town is. So, I figured no laptop. No smartphone either. There’s probably no wifi, and those shits die too fast anyway. Luckily, my mom had a few old Nokias laying around. Hella retro, and shut your fucking mouth whatever asshole might be reading this, I’m not a goddamn hipster! But these phones could literally survive a nuclear apocalypse, let alone a summer with a dumbass like me. And the battery still stays powered for _DAYS_ on a full charge.  
  
But yeah. No fancy stuff. Just a “dumbphone,” a simple camera: 8 megapixels, takes AAs, some art stuff, and this notebook.  
  
Oh, and like, underwear and shit. Enough to fit in a backpack.   
  
But… is it enough to last all summer? Don’t know, but I’m writing this right now from the passenger’s seat of Mr. Morrison’s blue-rust bucket of a truck, so it’s kinda too late to repack.

Looking around… god, this thing is old. There’s a slab of 2x4 fixed to the ceiling where I think I light would have gone? But I wouldn’t be surprised if the thing’s rusted through. The whole interior is a sort of drab gray. Dingy gray. Like ‘this is now gray from years of sun-fading and settled dirt.’ It has that same sort of dirty look that couches from the 90s do, but there’s thankfully no strange stains. The crackled vinyl of the dashboard is home to a coat of sun-baked dust. I’m tempted to swipe a finger across it. ~~Or draw a dick.~~ But let’s not. The AC seems to be busted, not even the fan works, I don’t think. And the truck itself is making cartoonish sputter-n-pop noises as we’re flying down the open road at a “staggering”… 42-ish miles an hour... _Holy fuck_ , I leaned over to check and it’s barely managing to stay past 40, the needle dancing just above the yellowed numbers, bouncing with the sputter of the rest of the damn thing.  
  
And of course there’s a smell, suspiciously mildew-y, like when I leave my stuff in the washer for too long back at the apartments. Don’t know if it’s an _our_ washers thing or an _all_ washers thing, but it definitely smells the same, like a lot of rainwater decided to take up residence in the carpets or something. I’m sure Mr. Morrison knows. He let the windows down as soon as I hopped in. Good man.  
  
It also smells kinda musky and.. ashy? Smokey? Like old blunts. Did Todd tell him that I smoke? Maybe that’s a weird thing to have a conversation with the ’rents about, but it’s a smell I totally don’t mind.  
  
Or… maybe he opened the windows just because he’s hot. Judging from how he greeted me, he seems pretty lax, like nothing could ever bother him. At least not things normal people would be self-conscious about, like funky odors.  
  
When we were still near the city we had the radio playing, but once we hit the dirt roads and the buildings turned the hay bales (and the passing faces turned to cows, an upgrade I’d argue), Mr. Morrison pressed a button on the ancient tapedeck and a slightly warped version of some blues song started and he was singing along. My guess was Elton John, but that’s literally one of the maybe five blues dudes I could think of. I’m surprised it didn’t completely melt with all this heat, but it survived for the entire tape. When it ended, he hit eject, reached down near his side of the door for another and said:  
  
“You know, when Todd told us one of his little friends wanted to room with us for the summer, I thought he was talking about Neil,” Mr. Morrison started, his left hand still fishing blindly between the door and his seat.  
  
I paused for a moment. He knows about Neil? But… does he _know_ about Neil? ~~Like, does he know that Todd and Neil are totally railing each other?~~ God, maybe that isn’t something I should write in case the wrong eyes ever find this. But he said his name with the same happy lit that just seems to ooze from his whole body. I could practically hear his smile curl around the way he said _Neil_. ‘Though… that might just be the weed. I mean, maybe he’s cool, but I think I better play it safe and avoid ~~any gay stuff~~ _that_ for now.  
  
“Oh yeah? He’s been out here before? I bet the sky looks amazing at night around here.”  
  
“You better believe it is! All that light pollution in the city would make you believe we’re all alone out here in our corner of space, but man, is it fuuuuull!” Finally, Mr. Morrison seemed to find what he was looking for, swapping the two cassettes. He didn’t press play just yet. Seems he wanted to talk some more. “There’s a nice clearing a little ways out of town that’s perfect for night sky-watching. Or if you’re up for a hike, I wouldn’t call it a mountain, but there’s some higher ground with a bit of a cliff edge deeper in the forests. There’s pretty sunrises there too.”   
  
“I remember,” Mr. Morrison continued. “When Todd first brought Neil around. On their first night out, his eyes were as round as dinner plates, and I swear I could see every little star reflected in them. Boy, he was excited!” he laughed at the memory.  
  
“Yeah, sounds like Neil.” I smile and nod, though I’m sure Mr. Morrison didn’t notice since his eyes haven’t moved from the road.  
  
“Yeeep! I think the only thing that surprised him more was our toilet situation!”  
  
Um… Toilet situation?  
  
“Toilet situation, sir?” I ask rather carefully. Fuck. They have an outhouse, don’t they? I’ve doomed my ass to midnight shits in a hole for the next three months.  
  
“Oh, didn’t Todd tell you? How’s that boy always forgetting that part?” Mr. Morrison chuckled around his bushy ginger mustache. “We have a whole composting system set up for the garden!”  
  
“I… can’t say that I’m familiar?” I end like a question, trying to keep my tone even, polite.  
  
“Well, it may be a little weird at first, but we’ll get you set up with your own buckets and towels so you won’t have to share ours.” _Oh god_ , there’s _buckets._  
  
Completely ignorant to my discomfort, he continues, “The composting system allows us to use our own waste to fertilize the garden, which is great since we don’t have livestock of our own. ‘Though, it won’t be useable immediately. Gotta set it aside and wait for a year for the worms to do their thing.”

I’m quiet for a minute, unsure of what to say without offensively expressing how I’m… _really_ not feeling this. I think Mr. Morrison mistook my silence for confusion. “Don’t worry, we’ll show you when we get there!”  
  
No. No, I want you to show me a normal flushing toilet. Preferably with toilet paper.  
  
“So… w-why a year?” I settle for instead. Questions are safe. Questions show interest.  
  
“Unfortunately, human poo has contaminants in it. Takes the worms and the other bacterial critters a year or so to completely breakdown and make everything ready for use.”  
  
“So… you’re telling me that if I take a dump at your place, you’re going to keep it for an entire year before using it to grow your pot?”  
  
Mr. Morrison bursts out in an unexpectedly deep roar of laughter, slapping the steering wheel as if my genuine concern was the best joke he’s heard in years. “Woooooo! Didn’t know my boy told you about my crops! But yes, that’s the gist of it!” Oh. That part. Yeah, Todd was sure to mention the pot, but somehow conveniently forgot about the toilet stuff. And at this point, other stuff, I’m sure. Once he got the last of his chuckles out, wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye, Mr. Morrison says “You know, Larry, you’d be surprised how much of life is about shoveling shit, one way or another.”  
  
“What do you mean, sir?”  
  
“Well, you could be shoveling shit figuratively at a desk job, slaving to make some other guy’s wallet nice and fat for the sake of making ends meet. Or you can literally shovel the shit from you and your loved ones on your own farm. Either way, it’s all for the sake of surviving.” He sighed with a knowing smile. Like he was relieved. “That’s what life’s all about, deciding which shit you want to shovel.”  
  
Honestly, I didn’t know where he was going with this, but somehow… that really hit me. Fuck, I don’t know how to put it into words. Maybe this is the part where Ash was saying writing would be good for getting my creativity out when I’m feeling blocked in other ways? Doesn’t help if I don’t have the right words to say what I’m feeling, but… I think Mr. Morrison might be speaking from experience. Maybe he was a desk jockey at one point in his life and gave it up to do this. A self-sustained pot farmer. That’s pretty cool, actually. Really cool.

“Choose your own ‘shit’ and shovel it.” It escapes my mouth thoughtlessly, I’m still trying to get a hold of what I wanna say. It’s not coming. And that literally sounds stupid. Fuck.  
  
“Oh, and don’t pee in the bucket with your poop. Urine is sterile and ready for the garden immediately. We have a separate container for that.”  
  
... Right. We’re on the subject of shoveling shit because of the _toilet situation_. And for the next three months, I’m not going to have a choice but to shovel my own shit. Great. “Noted.”  
  
  
  
I’ll pick up on this later. Some buildings are finally coming into view. I think we’re getting close.


	2. Chapter 2

Captain’s Log, Entry #2  
04/29 part 2, 0800 hours PM. I’m not about to do the math to figure out military time of a stupid joke to myself. Future me will understand and probably agree.

~~I… think I saw a demon? Or a ghost? A possessed scarecrow??????~~   
  
Something in that fucking field _moved_ and it was _watching us_.  
  
I… maybe. I don’t know. Maybe the heat’s getting to me? Making shit look like it’s moving when it’s not? I don’t know…   
  
Let me back up a little. To pick up where I left off.   
  
We reached town. It was very small. I don’t think people nowadays actually use the word “town” correctly, because this place is not like a suburban town, which would be smaller than say, a metropolitan city, but is still very busy, densely populated, and have tons of big name corporations everywhere. Fast food who? Supercenter what? They don’t have those. Everything here is literally a mom-and-pop shop. I mean, that’s cool. Local businesses, fuck yeah.   
  
From the truck window I could see a bakery with a swingboard sign shaped like a loaf of bread, a barber shop with one of those swirling candy cane-looking pole-things. I think it’s busted. The shop is open but the pole isn’t lit. Still cool though. It’s one of those things you see in movies, or you’d find it at a shop that’s trying to go for a retro aesthetic, but not like… a legit one, you know?   
  
There was also a deli: Packerton’s Meats. And a convenience store right next door: Sanderson’s.   
  
There’s a post office, a candy shop, a few restaurants… huh, even a tech repair shop: Fisher’s Electronics. And a pub. Of course there’s a pub.   
  
And there’s more little cobbled streets with storefronts I can’t see from the truck. I’m sure I’ll have time later to explore the whole town, but it’s nice to know this isn’t absolutely the middle of nowhere. I mean… it is. But my expectations were worse. I was thinking more like Nowhere, Kansas from _Courage the Cowardly Dog_ , like a shack for a house, a busted wind turbine, and nothing else for miles.   
  
But the one “major” road in town took us straight through without any turns or stops, and the rust-bucket passed on by like a tumbleweed.   
  
Wow. I wonder if I’ll actually see any of _those_ while I’m here.   
  
We drove further, out of the town and past a few scattered properties, until we reached what seemed like another community-sort of area. There was one barn-red house with a yard much too big for it, but it seems the extra land was being used to farm.   
  
“That’s ol’ Addison’s.” Mr. Morrison spoke up, turning down his music. “Most of the family’s passed on or moved out, so it’s only Terrence there now. It’s become something more like a community farm since.”   
  
“Huh.” I watched as the white fence surrounding the property raced past the truck as we went. When I looked up, further out into the stretch farmland, out in the distance, that’s then I saw it.   
  
The _thing_. _~~Maybe demon. Maybe possessed scarecrow.~~_   
  
I don’t remember what the word for it is, but you know how when you’re passing in front of something, the objects that are closer to you move across your vision faster than objects that are further away? Well, unlike the sections of fencing, this _thing_ didn’t leave my sights until we completely passed the farm since it was way out there. Once I saw it, I didn’t look away.   
  
But again, it was far out, so maybe I’m just crazy and seeing things.   
  
But it was a _thing_. _A figure_. I thought it was a scarecrow at first. But who would make a scarecrow that so short that it barely sits taller than the crops? Thinking back, that doesn’t make much sense and now I’m more convinced it was something… _else_. Its back was towards the road, it looked like blue-ish stuffing was coming out of the top of it. And I think it had on a coveralls? The sun was getting low to the horizon by the time we pulled in, so it was hard to tell in the light if what it was wearing was green or brown. Like that weird indistinguishable moss color.   
  
I had to stick my head out a little just to watch it as we were passing the last of the Addison’s farm WHEN THE THING MOVED. IT TURNED. AROUND. COMPLETELY. IT HAD A FACE. PALE. AND DARK BLACK SPOTS FOR EYES. AND IT WATCHED US. I almost reached to rub my eyes, just to make sure I wasn’t seeing things, but I really didn’t want to look away and it suddenly disappeared. That would be WORSE. I settled for blinking rapidly. But nope. It was there, watching us as we drove away.  
  
“Uh, Mr. Morrison?” I sank back into my seat. I really wanted to ask about this, but I have no idea what I just fucking saw. “What’s up with Addison’s… _scarecrow_?”   
  
“Huh? Scarecrow? Terrance doesn’t own a scarecrow.” _Fuck fuck fuck, you weren’t supposed to say that!_ “Besides, those things don’t work. Crows are too smart!”  
  
  
  
The rest of the drive was short, since the Morrison’s property is near Addison’s. Mr. Morrison offered to help with my one bag. His wife, Todd’s mom, Janet, greeted me in the same way Mr. Morrison, Ray, did. Mrs. Morrison had dinner prepared, to which we all sat down as soon as we came in. It honestly looked amazing, but…. I was skeptical to eat. He said Addison’s was like, a community farm, right? Like everyone in the community works on it? And everyone _eats_ from it? So, these are like… demon veggies, right? That thing _touched_ this food. Did… _something_ to this food. Cooking kills germs, sure, but does cook kill demon blight???? I have my doubts that cooking is a threat to the supernatural. I pushed my food around on my plate while they talked. During which is when they told me to call them Ray and Janet respectively. Janet eventually noticed I wasn’t eating. I lied and said I was just too tired. She allowed me to leave with a glass of water, to get some rest. So, here we are. Hungry and worried about farm ghosts on the first night.   
  
I… don’t know how I’m going to get to sleep. I wanna tell myself that maybe whatever it is just haunts the farm. Like it’s tied to the land. That’s a thing right?   
  
Fuck. I really should have brought my phone. Even if I can’t use the wifi or if it dies fast, I could have at least listened to music.   
  
… I don’t know what else to write. I’m kinda freaking out about farm ghosts? And I’m tired but I don’t want to sleep???  
  
I think I’ll just draw until I pass out.   
  
If that thing takes me in my sleep and these are my last words, at least let it be known that I have not shat in any buckets, the Morrisons do not own any of my poop, and that your town is fucking haunted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoops


	3. Chapter 3

04/30. Future Larry here, checking in. You survived the night and _you’re a damn fool._  
  
He’s here, waiting for me in Ray and Janet’s living room. The “thing.” The pale-faced farm ghost demon.  
  
 _Sal._  
  
His name is _Sal_ and he actually seems pretty cool.  
  
Will update more later. Need to get dressed now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not-so spoops

**Author's Note:**

> I made an entirely separate Tumblr for this journal-story thing. You can follow it at dear-damndiary.tumblr.com


End file.
